Served Cold
by Whisp
Summary: After it's over, Sam and Dean find that there are more demons than just one that killed their mother.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Served Cold

**Summary**: After it's over, Sam and Dean find that there are more demons to deal with than the just one that killed their mother.

**Rating**: PG  
**Characters**: Sam and Dean  
**Warning**: None  
**Spoilers**: Slight spoiler for Dead Man's Blood  
**Timeline**: Set about a year or two into the future, very non-specific

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Please don't sue.

-

_When Sam was one, and Dean was five (and a half, thank you very much), Sammy slipped on the gravel while walking on Pastor Jim's driveway and scrapped up his knee. For a moment, he looked more shocked than anything, but then bright red blood started trickling down Sam's knees. Face filled with horror at the sight, Sam took a deep breath and began to wail. _

_Dean tried to comfort Sam without looking at the blood, which made his stomach tight with uneasiness. He gathered his brother into his arms, but couldn't keep a hold of the one-year-old's squirming body. As time passed, Sam's screams become shriller, his face as red as the blood on his knee. Dean tried everything – "please! please Sammy!" – but Sam just wouldn't stop crying. Tears started leaking out the corners of Dean's eyes and before long, he's sitting on the ground right next to Sam, crying loudly in despair. _

_Dean screamed for Mommy, but it's Daddy who came running, a pained look etched on his face. Daddy gathered them up into his arms and hugged them close as he carried them back to the house. He carefully bandaged Sam's knee and wiped away both of their tears. _

_Afterwards, sitting Dean on a chair, Daddy explained that it's just the three of them now, and he has to be strong to protect Sam, got it Ace? while Dean listened with wide and innocent eyes. With effort, he quieted down his hitched breaths, ran the back of his hand across his nose, and nodded his head solemnly, vowing not to cry again. _

-

It's spring now, but there's still a hint of a chill left in the air, enough to make Dean shiver as he gets out of the car. They're parked on the edge of a dark copse of trees just on the outskirts of Lawrence. A small gap in the trees and a trail of flattened grass marks the path that will take them to the house in the clearing.

Shrugging on his jacket across his shoulders, Dean makes his way around the car and keys open the trunk. The metal of the car is cool against his hand as he props it open. There's a brief hesitation at the combination lock, but before long, he's hauling out the weapons. The setting sun glints oranges and reds off the gun metal as they are twisted in his hands.

He tosses a shotgun and ammo to Sam, lips quirking with pride as Sam snatches the gun out of the air and loads it with ease.

They're hot on the trail of the demon that murdered their mother, and this time, they're ready.

Dean's body is humming with anticipation and he can't help but grin. He loads his own shotgun with equal efficiently before slinging it across his back. Leaning back into the trunk, he grabs his favourite .45 and slips the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. Next, the knives slide softly into the sheaths on his hips and wrists. After a brief moment of thought and a mental _what the hell, why not_, a broadsword gets strapped across his back. You never know what's going to be useful in the fight against evil and Dean always likes to be prepared. Nothing but the colt will kill the demon, but that doesn't say anything about the minions.

Hefting his duffel of supplies on his back, Sam watches Dean with a raised eyebrow and can't help but comment, "I'll lock the trunk again, Dean. You don't have to bring its entire contents with you."

In reply, Dean slams the trunk shut with a bang and a feral grin. He feels a flush of pre-demon ass-kicking excitement. Suddenly adrenaline is pumping fast through his veins and he sure as hell ain't cold anymore.

He lives for this moment.

-

_When Sam was eight and Dean was twelve, they still woke up early enough to watch cartoons together on Saturday mornings. Dean, feeling too old to watch cartoons anymore, only woke up because someone had to make Sammy's breakfast. They only watched TV together because he needed to be there to tell Sam what was real and what was not. _

_Every week without fail, they curled up side by side on the couch, soggy bowls of cereal securely tucked in their laps and watch enraptured as the superheroes beat up the bad guys before disappearing into the night. Dean decides he wants to be a superhero when he grows up. _

_-_

Dean's imagined this a thousand times. The final stand, his father on one side, Sam steadfast on the other, a white-hot blaze of glory, and his final, sweet revenge. It's stupid, he knows, and not like that at all, but he can't help wanting.

For one thing, their father isn't even there. And to tell the truth, it was a bit anticlimactic in the end. Some salt, some fire, a little sword swishing decapitation, and Sam screaming himself hoarse in Latin. A single gunshot, and it's over. A pile of ashes blowing in the non-existent wind.

They don't stick around for too long after. Dean salts the ashes, grinding them in with the boot of his heel, turning it all to a dull grey. After that, lighter fluid gets pour on top so Dean can torch the sucker again. The pile lights up with a quiet whoosh and soon flames are spread rapidly across the floorboards.

The two of them barely have enough time to haul ass out of the place, Dean limping heavily, before it lights up, flames bursting out the windows and eagerly crawling up the roof. The wood burns with loud cackles and hisses, and the smell of smoke mixes with the crisp night air.

It's cold enough that the air burns Dean's throat when he breathes in, and suddenly he's hit with the memory of being four again, scared and confused as he clung to his father's side on the hood of their car watching their home go up in flames.

Dean's shivering violently as he and Sam watch on. Try as he might, he can't force himself to stop.

Soon, they have to gather their weapons and head back to the car. At the edge of the clearing, Dean can't help but stop for a moment, mesmerized by the spreading light. The flames spread quickly up from the basement and soon consume the whole house. Dean waits for the heat of the blaze to reach them, to make him warm, but Sam drags him away, worried that the locals will notice and send someone to investigate.

The woods are pitch black with the new moon and even darker with the light of the flames still burned into their retinas. It seems to Dean like he's stumbling across everything in their path. Maneuvering slowly, they pick their way out of the clearing, Dean leaning heavily on Sam for support.

What they both need right now are showers and stitches. Back at the car, the weapons are put away in silence. For once, Dean is glad that Sam is driving so he can just sit in the passenger side and lean against the cold glass of the window.

Dean can't gather together any of the energy he usually has after a case. But this wasn't just any case. He feels a weight on his chest that has nothing to do with injuries. His mother's killer is dead and all he can feel is empty.

The tension is practically physical in the tight space of the car. Sam's itching to talk; Dean can practically hear the unspoken words running though his head. But thankfully, Sam lets it go and slides uncontested into the driver's seat. Dean cranks up the heat and they're gone, rumbling down the cracked dirt road.

At the motel, they trudge quietly up the stairs to their motel room, leaving the weapons in the car. That leaves Dean with a momentary pang of guilt, but it's chased away quickly by his weariness. They'll be there in the morning.

Once inside, they set about patching themselves up. Dean bites his lip as Sam pours alcohol into his wounds. The pain is sharp and races like fire down his nerves and Dean lets it fill him up inside. When it fades, he's left shaking on the bathroom floor of another nameless motel, Sam staring intently at the gash on Dean's leg, a threaded needle in one hand, and red-stained alcohol running thin rivulets down the drain.

Afterwards, Dean crawls under the covers, where the faint smell of smoke is still detectable over the smell of the laundered sheets.

He lays his head against the pillows, and doesn't fall asleep.

-

End Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Served Cold (part 2 of 2)

**Summary**: After it's over, Sam and Dean find that there are more demons to deal with than the just one that killed their mother.

**Rating**: PG  
**Characters**: Sam and Dean  
**Warning**: None  
**Spoilers**: Slight spoiler for Dead Man's Blood  
**Timeline**: Set about a year or two into the future, very non-specific

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Please don't sue.

**Notes**: I've made some changes to part one, but nothing major, so it's not worth the re-read. I wanted to thank Krazy who was a wonderful beta for this fic. Sadly, this is the last part for this fic. I got bitten in the ass by another plot bunny and had to go entertain it.

Please review with any comments (good or bad). Thanks for reading!

-

Part 2

-

_When Sam was eleven, and Dean was fifteen, while cleansing a house of a poltergeist, Dean broke his leg in two places. The doctor shook his head as he reset the bones and told him not to play with his brother so close to the stairs again. As a result, Dean had to stay at the house while Sam and John took the weekend hunting trips. _

_Dean watched TV while they were away, leaving the volume low so that he could hear the phone if it rang. The first-aid kit was always ready and waiting on the kitchen table. Staring out the window, he could recognize the glare of the headlights from the Impala as soon as it turned back onto the street. By the third week, Dean was good enough on the crutches that he could make it back to the couch and have the volume turned up loud before they could get in the house. _

-

They drive all day to the middle of nowhere, and it's another nameless motel, another nameless bar. Sam takes pity on Dean and buys the first round. The glass is warm where Sam's hand was closed around it. Wrapping his hands around the glass, Dean tries to hold in the heat, but the cool air whisks it away.

Dean proceeds to get piss drunk and angry.

A couple of guys take offense to that. Normally, Dean would have kicked their asses and walked away, but his ankle gives as he lashes out a foot and it's all the other guy needs to gain the upper hand. Sam has to jump in before Dean ends up with a concussion and earns a split lip and bloody knuckles for his effort. More than a little pissed off, he drags Dean out of the bar.

Dean's drunker than he's been in a long time. On the way back to the motel, he leans heavily against Sam for support.

Dropping his head on Sam's shoulder, he slurs, "Don't leave me, Sammy."

"It's Sam." Sam replies shortly. Still annoyed with Dean, he adds curtly, "It hasn't been Sammy for years. Not since I was a kid."

"Not since you left us behind, you mean. Since you grew up and become too good for demon hunting."

"We're not kids anymore, Dean. There comes a time we all have to stop playing superheroes."

"No" Dean says. "Not superheroes. They get to go home at the end of the day."

Sam closes his eyes and sighs. "You can go home." He says gently. "It's dead. It's over."

Dean wrestles free of Sam and shoves him away weakly. "It'll never be over. There'll always be something waiting in the dark. There're other people to help out there."

Suddenly seized with anger, Sam shoves Dean back and scoffs, "You're trying to take the righteous route here? Come on Dean, be realistic. You never cared about anything else except yourself, your car, and you and Dad's goddamn petty revenge. You can't go around trying to save people. Not forever."

Dean's voice turns frigid. "You know what? You think whatever the fuck you want to think. I'm sorry I brought you out here. Sorry I dragged you out of college and your perfectly bland, normal life. You were right to leave, Sam. Maybe you were better off without us."

"You're so fucked up, Dean." Sam throws up his hands in defeat and tries to walk away. He just doesn't understand. Hasn't since he was ten and he learned that other people's daddies didn't chase after ghosts.

"Sam, wait -" Dean reaches out and catches Sam on the arm. Sammy's sleeve slides through his fingers, and Dean tightens his fist desperately to hang on.

Turning back around, Sam's eyes are soft with pity and Dean fucking hates it.

-

_When Sam was five and Dean was nine, Dean brought home a permission slip that Dad forgot to sign before leaving on his hunting trip. So Dean got to watch from the classroom window as all the other kids loaded on the bus for the museum and decided it didn't matter. He crossed his arms and turned his back on the window, biting his lip until tears came to his eyes. He hated museums and anyways, he didn't like the other kids. He'd rather be alone. _

-

The next morning, Dean covers Sam's sleeping form with the comforter off his bed and hobbles outside the room. Leaning against the railing, he lights up a cigarette and stares out over the motel parking lot in the pre-dawn light. The nicotine does little to calm down the rampage of thoughts running through his head.

Just beyond the lot, the highway is already busy with commuters. "All roads lead to Kansas" Dean thinks idly, then laughs bitterly. He fucking hates Kansas.

So he stands and he smokes, rolling the cigarette slowly between his fingers. His hand is itching for the feel of a gun, but this isn't something he can fight.

He doesn't know how long he's been standing there before Sam wakes. Most of the parking lot has emptied as he watched, slowly adding to the pile of crushed cigarette butts at his feet.

The soft click of the door behind him, then Sam's leaning on the railing beside him. His hair's flat on one side and spiky on the other, but he looks more rested than Dean's ever seen him. Better than the red eyes and dark circles he knows he has on his own face.

"You all right?" Sam asks.

Dean looks Sam out the corner of his eyes. Sam stands straighter now, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. Dean hunches his shoulders against the coming wind and makes a decision. "Never better" he answers.

-

_When Sam was eight, and Dean was twelve, they started school in a whole new town. It was one of those small towns where everyone knew each other and said hi in the streets as they passed. The first day of school (3rd week for everyone else), Dean came home with a black eye, scraped knuckles, and a note from the principal. Sam gave Dean a frozen pack of peas for his eye and sat at the kitchen table with him, quietly finishing his homework while they waited for their Dad to come home. Dean doesn't say a word, so Sam doesn't either, instead he wordlessly added his sums and watched Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean's eye was tearing like crazy, even with the bag of peas pressed tightly over it, but Sam just pretended not to notice. _

-

When they leave, Dean tosses Sam the keys and slides into the passenger seat.

"Where's our next stop?" Sam asks.

Slipping sunglasses over his eyes, Dean shrugs. He leans his head against the window, pulling his jacket tight around his body. "Just drive."

The sound of the engine starting up is Sam's reply. He doesn't understand, but knows that isn't what Dean needs right now. So he shifts into drive and pulls out of the parking lot, following the pale rays of the rising sun.

A couple of hours later, he stops at a diner so they can have lunch. They have a really hot waitress at their table, and Dean looks her in the face when they're ordering. That's how Sam knows that something's really wrong.

"So what are we doing, Dean?"

Dean looks everywhere but at Sam. "Leaving?" He offers.

The corner of Sam's mouth quirks in sympathy. "We're not in Kansas anymore," He tells Dean, who's busied himself shredding paper napkins into tiny strips of white. When he finishes one, he grabs another from the dispenser and keeps adding to the pile in the middle of the table.

Sam knows that Dean didn't sleep a wink last night. He heard the door click shut early this morning. Saw his red-rimmed eyes and the slight shake of Dean's hand as he was lighting up cigarettes. But despite this knowledge, Sam doesn't have the slightest clue what to do.

They sit in silence, Dean absentmindedly staring out the window while he mechanically tears up napkins. The previously sunny day has given away to incoming rain and wind. It's picked up since they're been inside. So Dean watches passively outside as a women's umbrella turns inside out as she struggles against the wind. She's also tugging along two kids, who don't help in the least, instead choosing to dance around in the pelting rain. Dean imagines that he can hear their shrieking laughter through the glass. Swallowing hard, he looks away, clenching his hands tight enough to leave moon-shaped crescents in his palms.

Meanwhile, Sam's wracking his brain for things to say. He doesn't know where to start because he's never been faced with this. Dean's rabid avoidance of touchy-feely moments is something shared by all of the Winchester men, as much as Sam tries to deny it. Dean has always shut his feelings away from Sam and now he doesn't know how to deal with it.

Sam's never had to take care of his brother like this before. Never had to be the strong one, and it scares him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sam asks gently.

He's interrupted by the waitress, who brings their order. She sets the plates in front of them, sending little strips of white paper napkins scattering over the tabletop towards Sam. He brushes them into a neat pile again, waving off her parting apology as she hurries back to the kitchen.

Dean pokes at his food half-heartedly before setting down his fork. Resting his elbows on the table, he rubs the back of his neck but doesn't look up at Sam. "You can still go back."

"To Kansas?" Sam asks, but he knows that isn't what Dean meant.

"They'll still take you. Extenuating circumstances and all."

Sam shakes his head. He can't have this conversation right now.

But Dean's now staring him in the face with the same intensity he uses to face down the worst of monsters. "We can make it to California by the end of the week. Pick up stuff you need along the way. You can look up ads for apartments on your computer. Or call one of your friends and crash at their place. Just need to keep driving."

With that, Dean picks up his fork again and hunches over his food, shoveling it into his mouth with a whole new resolve that doesn't invite conversation. Sam's glad because he doesn't know to say.

Dean doesn't look up again and Sam pretends not to notice when Dean stops eating in a few minutes and returns to staring out the window. But now there's a tightness in Dean jaw that doesn't go away and he's still swallowing compulsively as he watches the thick sheets of rain beating against the pavement.

Silently, Sam continues his lunch and feels guilty when he can already imagine the feel off the California sun warm against his skin.

-

_When Sam was thirteen, and Dean was seventeen, Sam was surprised to find out that Dean actually knew what a library was. Not only that, but Dean actually spent time there, giving up his weekday nights to spend hours cooped up with the books. _

_At first, Sam thought Dean was researching for their next hunting trip, but the weeks dragged on and Dean was still going, so Sam waited one night until he was asleep and looked in his backpack. Stuffed at the bottom were photocopied sheets of test after test, English and Math, the passages underlined and circled; the margins filled with equations scribbled in Dean's messy scrawl. _

_So Sam volunteered to go with John on the hunt when Dean said he was busy. They meant to be gone all weekend, but somehow, they accidentally stumbled across the rawhide's lair sooner than expected. It caught them by surprise when they tried to leave and gave Sam a concussion for their trouble. _

_John called Dean's cell from the hospital and Dean came, leaving behind half filled in circles and HB pencils falling off the desk in his wake. _

-

One week later, he's dropping Sam off in California, leaving him to piece back together the shattered remains of his life.

As he drives away, his hands are white-knuckled on the wheel. Music's playing as loud as it will go, but it doesn't fill the cooling void radiating from the seat next to him.

Outside, the light from the sun shines across the dashboard, just beyond the reach of his fingertips.

-

End


End file.
